Art of Intrigue
by Swevens
Summary: Claire, a young artist on the brink of her big break, finds herself caught up in a web of intrigue on the most important day of her career. Completely unprepared for the life of secrets and lies that she's stumbled into, she must decide between the life she's always wanted and the role she was born to fulfill.
1. First Steps

First Steps

"…Claire…Claire! Hey!"

I pull myself reluctantly away from the canvas in front of me and turn my head to the side, bringing my best friend's face into view.

"Are you going to answer that?" she asks, stabbing her paintbrush in the direction of my cell phone, which I belatedly realize is alerting me to an incoming call.

I sigh, irritated at the distraction, but the buzzing stops before I decide whether to put down my brush and answer.

"Might've been Ben," she quips, wiggling her eyebrows up and down.

I smile at the thought but turn back to my work, pausing only to reach out and brush a line of green paint across the pale skin of her forehead. "Final project's due tomorrow, _Andria_ ," I intone, brows furrowing critically at my own work. "Ben should be the least of your worries."

She retaliates with a swipe of her red-dipped brush across my cheek. "Call me that again and poor Ben's going to find you wrapped in a body bag the next time he stops in."

I pause and study her obviously-pissed-off look in amusement. In our first year, posters with each student's name were hung on the dormitory doors to help students find their way to their assigned rooms. I had arrived at our door just in time to witness a tall blonde tear down a poster proclaiming _Andria Sydoryk_ , and slap up a loose leaf paper with a single word written in all-caps with a pink Sharpie – _Tandy_.

Now, in our fourth and final year in our Fine Arts Undergrad program, we're nearing the end of the three-year lease on our cramped studio apartment. The last of our final exams, the current projects in front of us, are due the day after tomorrow. It's an uneasy feeling especially since neither one of us knows what we're doing next year, or if it'll even be together.

Sobered by the thought, I turn back to my work, touching up a spot where blue and green seem to meld together wrong. I hesitate before cleansing the brush in my water cup and applying a deep grey tone to the sky in light, streaky strokes.

"He probably just wants to go out tonight, maybe catch a late movie," I say distantly, already losing myself again in the colours and feelings of the scene. I dip into the black and lightly tint the grey areas, before taking a finer brush and adding white tones too.

"Uh, I'm thinking he most likely wanted to meet for breakfast," Tandy intones, reaching over to pull of the shade on the tiny window facing the street. I wince at the strong sunlight filtering through, into the room. "You got so lost in your work you probably didn't even notice when I left to take a nap around three."

"Too busy," I reply, judging my work in the new light. "This project is worth too much to mess up."

"My God, Claire, that's practically a masterpiece," she exclaims, leaning over to examine the piece. "I love the way you use colour and shapes, rather than specific detail to give your art life – your personal style is going to be one of the hallmarks of our art age, I can just tell!"

"You've got even bigger plans for me than I do," I joke, but I set my brushes down, satisfied that I can do no more right now. Maybe I'll sit down for a bit tonight and re-examine it once more.

"You've got the talent for it," she replies, straightening her long, toned legs as she stands and stretches. "You just need to find your muse, your Mona Lisa, if you will. Hey, weren't you supposed to drop that other painting off at _ today?"

I stand so fast I almost knock over my paint palette. "Shoot, I bet that's what Ben was calling about!" A glance at the clock tells me I don't have time even to shower.

Tandy laughs and points me towards my room. "You better change into something clean, at least. Wait until the inevitable proposal to start dressing like a slob around Ben – he can't handle as much of you as I can."

I swat at her as I hurry past, but don't bother with a reply. The sister I never had, Tandy can handle more of me than anyone, so arguing would be futile.

I don a strappy black blouse and debate dress pants before settling on high-end dark denim jeans and black boots that hit mid-calf. I gather my unruly hair into what I hope is an artfully messy bun at the back of my head and pick up the painting, already wrapped in burlap, before sprinting out the door. Being late for this meeting would hurt my artisan dreams worse than failing my final project.

X

I arrive just on time (which as Ben would say, is ten minutes late in the business world) and am ushered straight through the lobby and into an elevator made completely of glass, showcasing a breathtaking view of the city. Five floors up, we step into a wide hallway and immediately turn into the boardroom behind the heavy double doors. The secretary waits until I'm seated just to the left of the table head before disappearing back into the hall. She doesn't say a single word more than necessary, giving only a nod at my thanks.

Carter Yen, the Head of Public Relations, and the bigwig I'm meeting today, hasn't arrived yet, so I take a moment to catch my breath and smooth the stray hair away from my face.

The building itself is sleek and very modern, one of the largest in Washington. Headquarters of some giant conglomerate company, I've never before had reason to venture into the world of business politics and Armani suits inside. Ben, on the other hand, is one of their elite junior members and spends most of his time holed up here. These white, sterile walls are likely as familiar to Ben as the inside of his own apartment.

I am suddenly struck by the oddity of never having stepped into his world before. We've been dating two years now, and Ben's arguably the second-biggest part of my life in Washington, behind only Tandy, and has even visited my home in Canada last summer.

The unsettling realization is cut short as the heavy double doors swing open, revealing a stout man in a no-nonsense suit. His greying hair is slicked back in a style that I assume is supposed to be suave, but the cutting coldness in his dark eyes draws me to my feet. It never gets any easier, meeting with Mr. Yen.

"Ms. MacNeil," he greets, shaking my proffered hand. "You have found your way here finely, I see."

"Yes," I manage, clearing my throat. Unlike Mr. Yen, business is not my strong suit.

"Excellent," he says, not batting an eye, though his gaze cuts to the burlap wrap leaning against the table edge. "You've brought it with you, I see. May I?"

My hand reaches out jerkily to pick up the painting, which Mr. Yen slides smoothly from the burlap.

Studying the work, Mr. Yen's eyes relax with satisfaction, though they don't lose their cold edge. "Yes," he says, laying the artwork on the table, "I think it'll do nicely. You've got quite the hand, Ms. MacNeil. You should be very proud, to have such a company interested in the work of an unknown student."

The way he says it doesn't feel like a compliment, and I find myself studying the piece rather than trying to form a reply. A large painting, the design is both simple and well-known. Resembling the American flag, seven broad red strokes cover most of the canvas, unconventionally uneven, though projecting strength and confidence in thick red patriotism. A suggestion of a square in the left corner is done in traditional blue, but the relaxed lines suggest wind rippling across the design. Each of the stars, dashed in slightly varying sizes, is shadowed to stand out from the page.

"You're Canadian, am I correct, Ms. MacNeil?" Mr. Yen asks, regaining my attention.

I'm so surprised I can hardly form an answer. "Yes, I am," I manage, trying to figure out how he'd know such a fact, based on our previous talks.

"I am most impressed, to see such a rendering of my beloved national symbol, brought to life by a foreigner." There's an inflection in his tone on the last word, though I can't tell quite what he means to suggest.

He appraises me then, his cold eyes travelling down to my feet and back up, lingering a second too long on my chest. Repulsed, I fight the urge to shudder as Mr. Yen continues.

"We are willing to pay a nice sum for the work, as we've previously discussed," he says, pausing. I nod, recalling the impressive figure discussed at our last meeting. "However, we have one condition."

"What might that be?" I ask bluntly, not sure how to phrase the question more tactfully.

"I see the promise in your talents," Mr. Yen says, catching e off-guard with the compliment. "I can only imagine what a Claire MacNeil piece might someday be worth. I will purchase this first piece today, for twice the amount I've already offered, provided that you bring me a painting worthy of a spot in the Metropolitan, within the next five years."

I am silent for a moment, surprised at the offer, and more than a little intimidated. "What sort of painting would you like?" I finally manage.

"What I like most about this one," he answers, gesturing at the flag on the table, "I can see the inspiration in it – the design was not commissioned by me, merely discovered. No, it's your own impression that really brings the image to life. If I were to instruct you to paint the White House, the painting would lack that same inspiration that drove you to create this image here. No, I want you to bring me another work like this, something purely your own. "

I am beyond speechless, and Mr. Yen seems to sense that and continues seamlessly.

"Preferably, it'd be along the same theme as this first one, but I'm open to reasonable artistic variance," he finishes, reaching into his suit to produce the contract, already drawn up.

He hands me a pen, gesturing for me to take a seat. "I've made the changes to the financial information, as well as adding a clause for the second painting, due no later than five years from this date."

I hesitate, pen a hairline from paper. The sum described in the contract would pay off my current student loan, as well as provide for any further schooling I might decide to take. However, part of me cringes at promising another painting to Mr. Yen, another part of my soul.

 _That's what being an artist is_ , I tell myself, shaking my head. I quickly sign my name and stand, shaking off the collared feeling of being under contract. _It's something I'm going to have to get used to_ , I internalize, shaking Mr. Yen's hand in parting.

The first big sell of my career, and the promise of another – I'm on my way.

It's a dizzying feeling.


	2. Another Day at the Office

Another Day at the Office

I step back into the hall, leaving Mr. Yen to collect the paperwork and painting, and run right smack into Ben, striding down the hall alongside several other men.

Just like a hero out of any one of a hundred fairytales, he catches me in a graceful sweep before I can hit the ground.

"Glad to see those dancing classes are paying off," I tease as I fall into step, happy to see him. The feeling doesn't last, though as I take in the stern expression on his face.

"I didn't think you'd still be here," he says, an unusual edge in his deep voice.

"Guessing you don't have time for a lunch date today," I try again, studying him more closely. It's then that I notice his strange attire. He's dressed all in black, and not in his typical expensive suit. I tug at the collar of the black shirt, trying to win a smile. "Didn't realize you took casual Friday so seriously."

We stop at the elevator, and the dark-haired man on Ben's right pushes the button. "Take the stairs," he says to me, still emotionless and avoiding my gaze.

The doors open up, and teasingly, I dart in, turning to gauge his reaction. The man who called the elevator glowers at Ben, but when I don't immediately retreat into the hall, the men file in after me. Ben shakes his head at me ever so slightly as he takes a spot nearby. I wonder if Ben will be in trouble with the boss of the group over this.

A little unsettled now, I turn to watch out the window as the elevator doors close behind the last of the men, and take an involuntary step backwards as a man I hadn't realized was standing by the window turns to take us in.

Everything in me skips a beat as I recognize him – it's impossible not to. Dressed up in full Americano uniform, Captain America himself glances at me before scanning the rest of the group. Though it's well-known that Captain Rogers has settled in the city, I've never seen him in person before now, and in the crowded elevator, sunlight shining off his shield, he seems larger than life.

The boss-guy speaks first, glancing only sparingly at me. Captain Rogers studies me a little more closely, as if trying to suss out my place in the group. At least my black top matches the attire of the day.

"Evidence Response found some fibers on the roof they want us to see, want me to get the tag team ready?" he asks, watching for the Captain's response.

"No," he replies smoothly, "we'll see what it is first."

"Right," the man in black responds, turning away.

The following silence is awkward, as I try to think of something to say to fill it. Ben won't look at me, and it's a relief when the door opens at the next floor and several men in suits pile in. Ben nudges me with his shoulder, turning me ever so slightly towards the open door, but when I glance up, he's looking pointedly away.

The doors close and Captain Rogers moves towards the middle of the crowd, and had I grown another eight inches or so as a child, we'd be standing shoulder to shoulder now. The proximity to the hero seems to reduce me to a starry-eyed blob incapable of forming any sort of conversation.

"I'm…sorry about what happened with Fury," the other man says, craning his head towards us. "Messed up, what happened to him."

"Thank you," Captain Rogers nods, and I'm suddenly aware that these two have at least a professional knowledge of each other. I glance back to Ben, wondering what sort of a company he's really working for, and why he's never mentioned meeting Captain America before – Tandy would've been in awe had he mentioned this.

The doors open again, and three more men step into the elevator. Captain Rogers takes in each of them, a faint expression of unease settling across his features. None of the men step off at this floor before the doors close again. Unsure what to make of the situation, I look to Ben, but he's still ignoring me. I notice the slight ticking in his jaw, and I get a strong feeling that there's something really wrong here, though I can't place what it is.

The elevator gives a slight jerk as it begins to descend again. Captain Rogers scans the crowd with a trained eye.

"Before we get started," he says, the sudden sound startling me, "does anyone want to get out?"

The whole crowd freezes for a brief instant before the leader in Ben's group produces some sort of buzzing rod with one sharp movement of his arm, and the whole area erupts into action. The crowd presses towards Captain Rogers, pushing me along with it as the men closest to him pin him against the elevator wall.

Someone pulls a handle off of a suitcase and I realize it's no handle at all as the man clasps it around Captain Roger's wrist and hauls his hand up towards a metal bar behind us. Vaguely I gather that the cuff is magnetized, though the information means little to me.

Disoriented and afraid, knowing only that anyone attacking Captain America must be a bad guy, I wrap my hands around the large arm of the man who has the Captain in a strangle hold. He throws me off as easily as a child swatting at a fly, just as Captain Rogers kicks out at his assailants, landing several hits on those nearby before anyone can even react.

Men fly every which way, sending cracks spidering along the elevator window, but Ben's boss whips the cuff through the air and manages to pin Captain Rogers to the bar, effectively immobilizing the arm. The man rushes at the Captain with the buzzing rod, and he manages to block the first swing before the attacker connects with his target. The buzzing sound, louder upon contact, rings through the air, and the Captain sinks under the pain, turning towards the wall as his attacker advances, increasing the force on the rod.

Ben and I both surge forward at the same instance, though I realize only as I ram my body as heavily as I can into the man in black, that Ben is charging straight for the Captain. The shock of my interference, more than my physical abilities, causes the attacker to stumble back a step, giving the Captain enough room to kick out at the next attacker.

I realize belatedly as he goes flying past that Captain America just struck Ben. Unable to process the turn of events, I am still standing in place when Ben's boss regains his balance and swings the rod into the side of my head like a baseball bat.

I don't know what affects me more, the electric shock that courses through me, or the sheer force of the blow, but stars dance in front of my eyes as the floor rushes up to meet me. A man in a suit steps on my hand as he rushes at the Captain, and I dazedly crawl towards the edge furthest from the fight. My head is throbbing so intensely, I'm only vaguely aware of the struggle in the elevator as the remaining men rush into the melee.

Fighting nausea, I pull myself shakily to my feet, holding on tightly to the railing at the window, and close my eyes, blocking out the spinning room. I can hear the electric buzz of the rod, although I can't be sure it's not just the ringing in my ears. There's a crashing sound followed by a series of muffled thuds, the sound of assaults making contact, though I can't pull it together enough to turn back to the room and find out who's winning. I take a deep breath and will myself not to throw up.

Suddenly, there's another crash, and then silence. Forcing myself to turn, I'm oddly relieved to see that it's Captain Rogers leaning down to pick up his shield. He freezes when he notices me, standing at the window, and hesitates as if he's expecting me to attack. When I don't, he simply turns towards the elevator doors and commands them open.

Even from my vantage point across the elevator, I can see the swarm of black-cloaked figures charging down the hall. Even as I gasp in shock, he's reacting, using his shied to slice straight through the elevator cable. I'm vastly relieved to see the goons fly upwards, until I realize with a glance at the windows that it's actually me freefalling towards the ground.

Captain Rogers gets down and braces himself against the window, and without thinking, I mimic the position, my stomach roiling at the room grinds to a stop. The Captain is immediately back on his feet, prying the doors open to another hall. It's all I can do to push myself back to my feet, my shaking hands gripped tight to the railing. Past Captain Rogers, I can see more black figures racing towards the elevator shaft, the gleam of guns evident even to me in their hands.

The Captain pushes the door closed and peers out the window. My own quick glance reveals that we're still at least halfway up the building. The men in the hall are shouting some sort of order but my ears are still ringing and I don't understand. Captain Rogers at me and then back outside, and before I can quite understand what's happening, he's sweeping me up, shield in front of us, and then we're flying through the glass.

The flying feeling lasts only a second before giving way to the much more terrifying sensation of falling through the air. The storeys whip past as the ground nears at a sickening rate, and then we're crashing through the glass ceiling of the neighbouring building, several people screaming as I land, hard, on the shield in a layer of glass shards.

I sit up immediately, without even checking to make sure nothing's broken, trying to gasp in enough air to feed my hyperactive lungs, but the landing knocked the wind right out of me. Captain Rogers takes a moment to gather himself, his breathing a little off, too, but pushes himself onto his feet.

I lean over to the side and close my eyes, deciding that if I'm going to be sick in front of a superhero, I don't want to see the disgust on his face, but before I can rid myself of my breakfast, I'm jerked onto my feet.

Expecting to see a black-clad thug with a gun, I'm surprised to see it's Captain Rogers beside me, instead, though he doesn't give me a chance to process the situation before pulling me into a run I'm not ready for. Ducking into the parking garage, the Captain pulls me onto a motorcycle, climbs on behind and guns it into gear, engine roaring as we tear out onto the street.

"Are they chasing us?" I shout, the wind whipping my words away as I try to glance behind us. "Will we beat them to the bridge?"

"They're already there," he calls ahead, opening the throttle up as we pick up speed.

Before I can ask what he means, a black shape – some sort of aircraft – roars past above my head. Turning more gracefully than any aircraft should, it hovers just above the road ahead.

"Stand down, Captain Rogers," someone is saying, " _stand down."_

The Captain just leans in and continues towards the aircraft.

"They won't shoot Captain America," I tell myself, just as the first bullets bite into the pavement just ahead. I close my eyes and fight the panic attack I can feel coming, trying to block out the sounds of the bullets, but none hit, and after a few seconds I force my eyes open again.

"Stay on," the Captain yells, and before I can figure out what he's talking about, he whips his shield at the plane, burying it in the part that was shooting – and jumps up after it, somersaulting up the front of the craft.

I stay on the motorcycle, craning my head as I pass under it, and watch as the Captain frees his shield and jumps gracefully off of the careening wreck, landing ahead of the speeding bike. As if he's done it a thousand times, Captain Rogers pulls himself back onto the seat as I roar by, the smoking mess behind us blocking off any other pursuit.


End file.
